


When the Levee Breaks

by apolloes



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan, The Trials of Apollo - Rick Riordan
Genre: (debatably), (for now) - Freeform, (i'll change it in september when it no longer is), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, No Romance, Out of Character, lots of tags will change as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24768574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolloes/pseuds/apolloes
Summary: Apollo has been a mortal for eight years, and perfectly adjusted (other than the constant regret). As a god, Apollo would have brushed off concerns of the dissipating Mist and the breaking of the barrier between mortals and mythos. Now, he's wrapped up in the centre of it.A continuation of the Trials of Apollo series, with a few retcons along the way.
Relationships: Apollo & Artemis (Percy Jackson), Apollo & Zeus (Percy Jackson)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 76





	1. The Night Comes Down

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Were I That Burning Star](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13843809) by [californianNostalgia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/californianNostalgia/pseuds/californianNostalgia). 



> “I argue that we choose to be good because of our bonds with other people and our innate desire to treat them with dignity. Simply put, we are not in this alone.” - The Good Place, Season 2 Episode 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Prithvi (@campbraceyourself), Keer (@sunapollo), and Pandora (@alexsrider) for feedback and reading one of the many final drafts!

At a quarter past twelve at night, the library is as abuzz as if it had been afternoon. Pages are flicked with disinterest, a few people sit aggressively typing last-minute essays, and students sit dozing as they idly flick their highlighters over their notes as they wish they were anywhere but here. The blinds flutter with the breeze, but the mugginess of the room is inescapable. In the glare of the industrial ceiling lights, the bags under the eyes of every student are more apparent than ever. In their usual corner, Apollo sits playing imaginary keys on the maple wood tables until he feels a whack on his arm.

“I swear to God, you start that tapping again and I’ll push you down the stairs,” Lynna grumbles from her spot on the floor, rubbing her reddened eyes and steadying her laptop on her knees at the same time. Her black hair is frizzy from the humidity and she curls her hair up into a bun before letting it fall back down behind her for the fourth time in the past half an hour. She leans back into the numerous coloured cushions she has stacked between her back and the wall, eyes drooping as she resumes staring at her screen.

“I follow Hellenism, so please don’t mention capital-G god, it’s distressing,” Apollo replies, stifling a yawn. His eyes burn under the stifling artificial light as he stares at the same sentence he’s been reading for the past five minutes.

“Bullshit, I can’t imagine you praying to anyone but yourself,” is Tim’s muffled response, from his place lying on the rug. He rests a textbook upside down over his face in a farce of reading.

Apollo grins. “Got me there.”

There’s a lurch in the conversation as they return to their textbooks - at least, Lynna and Apollo do. Tim instead throws his book to the side and covers his eyes with his forearm as his white and blue cap falls uselessly behind him. “Wake me up in 20 minutes, I’m out.”

The library enters a lull as students gradually stream out, having given up from studying for the night. Only a few desperate stragglers remain past the 1am mark, and the only sound of them is the occasional coughs echoing from other parts of the room, until they too eventually filter out.

Apollo stares at the open page in front of him, miscellaneous words swimming in his mind. They’re familiar, like a memory he knows existed but can’t remember the details of. Eight years ago, when he’d first experienced it, the feeling had left him with his chest aching and an impending sense of doom. Now, with the sprawl of words and diagrams in front of him, it’s tiredness and with it, a twinge of regret.

He almost drops his pen when Lynna’s voice suddenly says, “Okay, run through the most common causes of congenital infections?”

Apollo throws the pen into Lynna’s face, who bats it away just as it’s about to hit her on the nose. She laughs quietly. “Don’t know, don’t care. It’s past one, I’m going home. Tim can carry out his boyfriendly duties and suffer here with you.”

The two of them turn to look at Tim, who lies dead to the world, reminiscent of when they’d first met. Apollo lightly kicks Tim’s leg with his foot to no avail. “I wish I slept like that,” he says, for not the first time over the past six years. Tim's uncanny ability to fall asleep in the blink of an eye had both become a running joke and a source of envy.

“He’s a prodigy in the art of napping,” Lynna sighs. “Two years and he still can’t sit through a movie.” They sit in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes. Lynna highlights in her pastel blue highlighters. Apollo stares at a blind fluttering in the wind as he leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers lightly on the table, playing out Tchaikovsky’s July on the hardwood surface. The moonlight peaks underneath, somehow not overshone by the white lights of the library. Abruptly, Lynna asks, “What’s up with you today?”

Apollo raises a single eyebrow as he tilts his head in her direction but shrugs as he continues practising. The two sit in a stalemate until Apollo’s finger slips and he curses. He raises his head to see Lynna’s stony gaze scrutinizing him. He gives a loose shrug and directs his attention back to the clock. 1:15 am. The sight of it makes his eyelids feel heavier and the feeling of the warm night wrapped around him like a blanket grows heavier. “Tired, I guess. It’s been busy. Haven’t seen my family in a while.”

Tim gives a cough in his sleep. “I didn’t know you were close to your family.” Lynna raises her eyebrows before letting out a large yawn.

“Mostly my sister,” Apollo shrugs. “Some of my other siblings like to check up on me every now and then. I don’t really get a choice.”

It’s true in a way. At first, he’d found himself irritated every time one of them turned up at his doorstep and created excuses to avoid their company. Aphrodite had been the one to begin referring to it as his ‘emo teenager phase’, but over the years almost all of them now use it to refer to his first few years as a human. Hermes had even suggested he dye his hair and get an ear-piercing. It was mostly in good humour, but there were still times it would come up scathingly or with a sourness in the tone that made Apollo want to strangle his half-siblings. Now, years later, the months of radio silence is disconcerting; he’d do anything to have them come to annoy him.

Under Lynna’s curious gaze, Apollo is tempted to use her as a therapist. It’s been months since he’s heard from his sister. At first, he had thought it had been a ‘him’ problem, but Leto had admitted she hadn’t heard from Artemis in almost a year. The Hunters had just ignored him. Hermes had claimed she was fine the last time they talked but even over a decade after Artemis had been kidnapped by the Titans, Apollo finds himself worrying about her.

His sister knows how to take care of herself better than anyone on the council, and those had been extraneous circumstances, but the Fates had their own plans and every time he thinks of Artemis being in danger again, Apollo finds himself holding his breath and getting clammy. Now it’s been almost four months since his last conversation with a family member, and everyone’s disappeared on him. It causes an unfamiliar twist in his chest that he doesn’t like.

After Apollo had made the decision to step away from Olympus for a while longer, he hadn’t expected any interactions with his family - he had made a laughing stock out of his father, and he’d expected Zeus to slam down any interactions with his siblings. Instead, the others had secretly started to check on him. They had begun talking for a couple of minutes once a month, and Apollo had realised how little he knew his siblings, especially his twin. They’d loved and cared for each other, but Artemis could barely stand his presence for more than five minutes. But they’d gotten better over the years, meeting more frequently and almost acting like normal siblings. It was nice.

Apollo blinks back into awareness when there’s a sudden movement in front of him. “Tim?!” Lynna is yelling, now down on her knees next to Tim on the floor, and her voice is so panicked Apollo jumps to his feet.

Tim is sitting up, spluttering and choking at once as terribly wet-sounding coughs wreck his body. His skin has turned a ghost-like grey whilst the tips of his fingers are blue. Apollo’s mouth falls open as he stares at the man who had been completely healthy not even half an hour ago. Now, Tim’s shivering, his clothes are sticking to him with sweat, and when he moves his arm down and away from his face, a tinge of bloody sputum clings on to the sweatshirt sleeve. It takes Lynna grabbing onto Tim’s hands for Apollo’s brain to spring into action.

“Lynna, move, don’t - ” Apollo tries, but she pulls Tim down into a sideways position onto the carpet then onto his side. “Lynna, you need to call 911 and move away.”

She shakes her head, but pulls out her phone anyway as the two of them move one of Tim’s arms over his side and the other under his head to support it, though his body is still wracked with coughs. Her straight hair is pinned back away from her face and Apollo can see the tightness on her normally-tawny brown but now ashen face.

“Doesn’t matter, if Tim’s already gotten to this stage then it’s not going to do much and we’re just as much at risk. We’ve both been around him long enough that we’ll have caught it anyway,” she says, putting the phone on the ground as it begins to dial. “I’ll get 911 on speakerphone, you see if there are any others here - they might be at the same point. We can’t let them choke.”

It’s completely inappropriate for the situation, but Apollo can’t help but feel both a burst of pride and shame as he stands. She was undoubtedly terrified out of her wits at Tim’s sudden collapse, but still had the forethought to consider others. In Apollo’s brief moment of hesitation, Lynna opens her mouth to add something before closing it abruptly.

“What?” he says, cautiously.

She shakes her head quickly looking embarrassed and then returns to watching Tim. As Apollo’s turning away, Lynna clears her throat first coughing quietly and then a bit louder and drier as he gets further away.

Apollo tries not to think about what will happen if she goes down too. He knows this can’t be some random illness - what sort of pneumonia pops up with extreme symptoms in a 30-minute window? It’s something very not-mortal but Apollo has to hunt down any remaining students before he can focus on eliminating the cause.

It’s lucky, he thinks. He hasn’t experienced any illnesses in his time as a human. He supposes it’s part of the suppressed ichor running through him - he doesn’t have easy access to his powers, but that’s a very different level of being than fighting off some weak bug. He swallows down a tinge of worry that sticks at the back of his throat - he’s not sure if there are any students still left in the library or if they’ve already choked on their own mucous.

Apollo clears his throat, trying to dissipate the dryness and scratchiness that’s appeared in his throat and swallows down a cough. He does not have the mental capacity at this time of night to be wondering if he’s been compromised and actually will come down with the pneumonia-like symptoms himself. If he gets sick and has to deal with the hospital, what are they going to find?

This is just you overthinking it, he reminds himself. Focus on the kids here. ‘Kids’ is stretching it - most of these ‘kids’ were at least 20 if not older, but even though Apollo is technically they’re age they all seem so much younger. In a way, they’re kind of like most of the kids currently running around at Camp Half-Blood, even though those ones are even younger than these - some even half their age. Somehow hopelessly naive yet incredibly world-weary at the same time. It’s probably a human thing.

Apollo traces the paths of the library like a hunter in the woods, moving quickly but quietly, ducking between heavy bookshelves and checking to see if anyone has fallen over but there’s no one. No bodies, no study materials, nothing, not even where Apollo had been sure there had been people coughing before. He almost calls out but the eeriness of the quiet makes him want to disappear into the ground rather than hunt for strangers that he isn’t particularly invested in. Instead, his bow materialises in his hand and his quiver on his back.

“It is not good for a god to be away from his weapons for long,” Artemis had warned over a year ago, as the golden weapons materialised in front of her. Her dark hair had been in a braid over her shoulder. The hair tie holding it in place had been a bright silver like her eyes. She had slid them over the table between their two milkshakes. “They should still act as they did when you had your immortality.”

His mind had whirled louder than the patrons talking around them, the low rumble of the radio station, and the sound of machinery going off behind the counter. It was a few minutes before Apollo reached out and rested a hand on his bow. It just sat there, non-magically and looking unimpressive other than the glean of the gold, but it also felt reassuringly familiar in a way very little had in the past few years.

Now, in the crushing silence of the library, with his hands curling around the grip of the bow, it settles the uncomfortable feeling in his abdomen. Apollo has spent millennia with this bow - has known it longer than he has known some of his siblings. If there was anything that could bring him some semblance of peace, it would be his weapon. He moves up the stairs as quietly as possible but flinches as his footsteps echo around the room.

At first glance, it is equally silent upstairs. The desks are empty, and the only sounds he can hear are his own gentle footprints and a distant sound of coughing. Still, it makes him uneasy enough that he reaches back and grabs a shimmering arrow and nocks it into place.

It’s somewhere between the first and tenth shelves when Apollo becomes acutely aware of the pressure pushing against his head. It is a presence, and it is power like he saw when his family sat on their thrones judging his successes (and failures) eight years ago and he had stared up at them, and it’s trying to get in.

There’s a second where the tension eases before doors slam against a wall downstairs, and hurried footsteps hit the wooden floors. A loud curse.

“What are you doing here? Get out!” a new voice rings out, followed by heavy coughing and distant stammering.

Before Apollo can form a coherent thought, he’s racing down the stairs as his head is once again crushed by an invisible vice. He veers dangerously around shelves until he comes back upon Tim, who’s now coughing more than ever but looks stable, and Lynna who is staring at a third figure as a voice comes from the phone held loosely in one hand and bloody sputum on the back of the other.

It’s a boy. 15 at most, in distressed faded black jeans and a hoodie that hangs on his frame almost down to his knees. He’s holding a metallic baseball bat over his shoulder but that's not what throws Apollo off.

Before, Apollo would have said he looked familiar but wouldn’t have put much effort into determining connections - if someone was important, he’d know them. But now, Apollo recognises the electric blue eyes and spiky black hair of Thalia Grace on a different face.

For a brief second, a multitude of emotions run through Apollo’s head that he can’t keep track of them. His mind settles on pity. Demigod children of Zeus and Jupiter had not fared well in recent years. Recent changes may help, but he can feel his shoulders sag at the thought of another death so soon. Great, ten seconds into meeting a new demigod and he’s already planning the poor kid’s funeral. They’re going to get along great.

The kid doesn’t help. A stricken expression crosses his face before his eyebrows crease, harsh wrinkle lines appearing on his forehead. His frown is analyzing and too serious for a boy of his age is far too familiar for comfort. Apollo has seen that expression before on Thalia Grace and Zeus’ face before the sharp scent of ozone and everything in his body screaming at him to “RUN!” as electricity strikes down. Thankfully for Apollo, the boy doesn’t seem to have much control of his own power, with little but small crackles of white light emanating from his hands. It still makes Apollo’s hair stand on end.

The two of them are still staring at each other, Apollo trying not to flinch between the growing pain and the boy’s calculating look when there’s a crack. Apollo’s eyes swing to Lynna, and the phone lying on the ground beside her.

“Is that - is that a bow?” Lynna gasps, gawking at the weapon. She lets out a very familiar Cantonese curse. “Where did you have a bow? Why do you have a bow?”

The boy physically recoils in surprise as Apollo grimaces. The first time he had run into her and Tim, Apollo had been in an argument with a lamia and the pair hadn’t even blinked at the coiled up tail that had been readying itself to strangle Apollo. He sighs heavily - there would be hours seated around the crummy ping pong table in the Big House because of tonight.

“Don’t worry about it.” Apollo allows his bow to hang loosely at his left side as he gives in and presses his hand to his right temple in vain, but Lynna’s brown eyes narrow and she pulls herself up to full height. Apollo’s momentarily relieved to see the monster crashing through the doors. Then, his mind explodes.

There’s too much going on at once. Apollo can hear scratchy voices in his head, talking in a symphony of confusion and dread in a language he can’t recognise. The world is spinning, his head pounds as if he’s banging it against a wall, and he can feel bile rising. It’s like the worst parts of being human have all coalesced and forced themselves into his brain so he could experience them all at once. He can feel sweat tinged on his body and muscles he didn’t even know could ache are aching.

All at once, everything retreats and the echoes in his head are almost apologetic as they leave. Some sensation returns and Apollo realises he’s on the warm wooden floor, covered in sweat, with Lynna standing over him. His vision is still fuzzy, but he can tell her eyes are blown out to astronomical proportions and her mouth is agape as she stands with her hands pressed to her face.

Apollo lets his eyes flutter shut. It’s like a horde of centaurs has run over him and he can feel the quiver pressing against all the most uncomfortable parts of his spine. His eyes fly open again as there’s a loud crash. What sounds like an avalanche of books hit the floor in a flurry of thuds, and then the floor shakes alongside even louder slam.

He curses, struggling to his feet when every muscle in his body feels like it’s gone walkabout. When a warm hand grabs his own and pulls him up, Apollo’s amazed to see Lynna’s worried brown eyes relax incrementally. “You got this.” She wrings her hands and glances down at Tim before looking up at Apollo. “I don’t know what this is, but you do. But what do I do now?”

“Get Tim out. Don’t come back in. I don’t need an extra two people to worry about.”

“Do you need me to get anyone else?” Together, Lynna and Apollo drag Tim up and arrange him so that Lynna can carry him out safely. There are still sounds of books being thrown around - Apollo hopes the demigod isn’t trying to use books as a weapon - and Apollo finds himself glancing in the direction of the noise.

“No, just go,” Apollo insists. “Stay safe. I’ll call you.”

Lynna purses her lips, but gives a nod, sagging under the weight of her boyfriend wrapped around her. Apollo watches as the pair stagger out, Lynna throwing a last cautious glance back at him as there’s the sound of furniture hitting a wall. If there’s anything outside, he hopes it’s more interested in chasing down an ex-god and a demigod with a baseball bat than two mortals.

Apollo glances enviously at the exit before leaning down to pick up his bow and the arrow that had fallen out of place. He straightens his quiver and slides the arrow back into it just as there’s a yelp of pain from the back of the library. His muscles groan at the thought of having to fight.

“μὰ τὸν Δία,” Apollo grumbles to himself.

* * *

The knocked over rows of shelves, flipped desks, and broken lights are the worst yellow brick road he’s ever seen. If Apollo had still been a god, perhaps he wouldn’t have been as wary - he’d have been able to hold his bow ready without fear of his muscles aching, he probably wouldn’t have had that minor fit, and he wouldn’t be feeling as sickly as he does now. Then again, if Apollo had been a god he would have just turned around and left the situation to be dealt with by the demigod. He hopes Artemis is watching now and is impressed by his heroism. He doubts it.

The battle is not going well for Thalia 3.0. Blood trickles down from his hairline and onto his forehead and he flinches as he moves. Apollo watches as he rolls under a leaping ink-black wolf causing it to slam into a bookshelf. There’s a growl from both parties and as the wolf shakes its head, the demigod throws his silver baseball bat like a spear at the wolf. It’s well-aimed and the force dazes the wolf, but it’s only after the boy seems to realise he doesn’t have a weapon any more.

Apollo has an arrow nocked and loosens it before the wolf has gotten to its feet. It buries itself into the wolf’s pelt. Four more arrows are shot in quick succession, and while three hit their mark - one embedding itself in the wolf’s ruby-coloured eye - one of the four arrows veers dangerously to the side. The boy’s mouth drops open and he recoils as if it was about to him. Apollo tries not to look too miffed - sure, he hadn’t been able to practise his archery in a few months, but there was no way Apollo was going to accidentally shoot the kid instead.

The wolf lets out a howl and Apollo watches as it curls into itself, shrinking until there’s a thin man crouched in the same position as the wolf. He pulls the arrow out of his eye and tosses it aside casually. The golden arrow makes a clang as it drops to the ground and the man flashes an irritated glower at Apollo before fixating on the boy again.

“This is none of your business.” His voice croaks like he’s not used to human vocal cords.

Apollo nocks another arrow and aims it at the werewolf. He doesn’t draw it back but Lycaon knows to be wary around its presence, silver or not. “Lycaon, I thought we came to an agreement. What are you doing here?”

“The agreement doesn’t apply here,” Lycaon rasps. Claws elongate from his overgrown nails and he leans back as if ready to pounce. Out of the corner of his eye, Apollo sees the boy take a step back, as if ready to run off. Finally, a demigod with some sense.

Apollo raises an eyebrow and draws his bow. “I don’t know,” he says, through gritted teeth. He can feel his back protest as tension shoots down his spine and, for the tenth time that week, almost regrets his past choices. “You attacking a demigod in New York City seems pretty contrary to what we set out.”

Lycaon bares his teeth and fangs elongate as blood seeps out of his damaged eye. If possible, his remaining eye seems to become a deeper red, and there’s a look in it that reminds Apollo of Artemis’ wolves when they’re set on prey.

“Apollo -” the boy starts. There’s a second where Apollo’s sure Lycaon’s going to pounce on the kid - instead, the werewolf swings around and comes barrelling towards Apollo.

Apollo barely manages to dive out of the way, curling into a roll, which only makes him nauseous and the world spins around him even as he stands. There’s no chance to rest - the kid has made a beeline for the exit, and there’s a giant wolf on Apollo’s tail with his bow and quiver where Lycaon is now standing. Apollo twists out of the way as the werewolf pounces again, but the wolf lands at the edge of a bookcase closer to the door than to Apollo. The bookshelf goes down and Apollo hears a yelp from the kid who is now backed up into a corner.

Lycaon bats at his bleeding right eye, and Apollo takes the opportunity to stumble to his feet, staggering to his weapon.

He closes his eyes momentarily, hoping the world will stop spinning but snaps his eyes open at a terrible yell. He curses Zeus, himself, mortals, and everything in the universe that decided that humans needed a poorly-functioning vestibular system (probably his father or Prometheus, but he’s willing to share the blame between them) and demigods were naturally cursed by Tyche. He swoops down to grab his bow, but a movement out of the corner of his eye has him pointing an arrow at the door instead of at the werewolf.

At the exit of the library, there’s a swirling mass of multi-coloured emptiness, gathering height to the point so it towers up to the roof of the second floor of the building, creating a tidal wave of nothingness. It’s beautiful, in some odd way, and Apollo watches as it seems to attack itself but also ramble its way towards them. He steps forward, bow now hanging loosely in hand, and there’s something about them that feels like coming home.

 _Nosoi_ , the word comes to him at once, but it should be impossible. _Nosoi_ didn’t gather in one place and they weren’t big on co-operation… or even being sentient. They were restless and temperamental, roaming the Earth mindlessly. When they clashed, they could set off pandemics like the Earth had never seen before - sometimes a few would come into proximity of one another causing the Plague of Athens, The Black Death, the Yellow Fever endemic, the Spanish flu, and countless other conditions... All were eventually tempered by Apollo once he’d realised how precarious the situation of humanity had become, even if sometimes it was a bit late. This many in one place? There’s no way anyone should be breathing, let alone conscious across the whole Manhattan island let alone in this room.

“Uh,” he starts eloquently. You don’t fight disease with baseball bats, but they don’t really respond to conversation either. Someone clearly hasn’t gotten that message across to the boy and, in typical demigod-esque fashion, he runs headfirst towards the danger - though perhaps only because it was blocking the exit. At the same time, Lycaon pounces towards him.

The pair cut through the amassed _nosoi_ as it was a pounding waterfall, the colours of the spirits casting eerie reflections off the windows. There’s barely a ripple in the mass, and instead the wave of _nosoi_ crashes down on the two, surrounding them in a sea of spirits so concentrated that Apollo can’t see through the swirling mess.

He curses loudly and looks around the room at the broken furniture but there’s nothing to help, and to make matters worse, he notices a security camera directed straight at them. Apollo doesn’t want to know what it’s showing.

He steps forward cautiously, as not to agitate the spirits. They knew him but they still weren’t sentient creatures. Some daimons were conscious creatures that actively sought to harm - plague was not; it just existed and everyone was left to suffer the consequences.

Then it comes to him. The _nosoi_ didn’t control themselves, but Apollo could. As he reaches back to grab an arrow, his shoulder protests, but if there’s any chance of the demigod making it out alive, he doesn’t have much time. He’d hadn’t been out for long - long enough for the demigod to trash the place - and a demigod didn’t have any familiarity with the spirits to protect them.

Apollo’s eyes fix on a golden fixture of the staff of Asclepius to the right of the doorway, almost at the exact height of the top of its arch. He nocks an arrow and aims carefully, before shifting his aim to the multi-coloured mass still swirling around. With only six arrows left in his quiver, he finds himself more tense than he’s been in a long time.

Please let this work, he prays. As soon as the first arrow has been let loose, Apollo works in quick succession for the rest, the arrows evenly dispersed but high enough that they should skim overhead.

The first arrow doesn’t seem to do anything, but with each successive arrow, the smoke-like texture of the _nosoi_ thin, and by the third arrow there are two figures on the ground, laying unmoving. By the last arrow, there are wisps of a presence lingering and even those seem to get sucked into the gold metal.

There’s pin-drop silence other than Apollo’s footsteps as he runs to check on the demigod. It would be peaceful, if not for the fact that he does not want to bring another dead son of Zeus to a camp. The thought itself… Apollo pushes it away.

It’s automatic, tilting the head back and pushing the chin forward, checking for breathing, and when the kid coughs in his ear, Apollo has never been more relieved to almost be thrown up over - he’s also relieved he wasn’t thrown up over.

“Oh, thank Leto,” Apollo sighs in relief, just as the sound of sirens becomes obvious. “Oh fuck, time to go.” He helps the boy to his feet, sparing a single glance for the unconscious werewolf curled on the ground and wincing as the kid leans on his shooting shoulder.

The boy is unsteady on his feet, black hair matted against his forehead, and Apollo flinches at the dried blood barely visible over it. He watches intently as the boy opens his mouth to say something, then doubles over and throws up on the ground. Apollo gives another sigh as he looks at his sick-covered sneakers, and he knows somewhere, his family is laughing at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism welcome! Thoughts on this new demigod?


	2. The Times They Are A-Changin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They are a fact of the human condition. We all feel powerless to equalise with the inherent guilt that comes with our existence. We all suffer and are victimised to varying degrees, especially when we're young. And we all spend a lifetime trying to compensate for that suffering." - Mark Manson, Everything Is F*cked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy last Sunday of the month! I think fortnightly updates will be a thing now, giving me a week to write and a week to edit. Don't hold me to that though. Thanks again to @campbraceyourself and @alexsrider's for checking out this chapter beforehand! Do check out the note at the end of the chapter, please!

Apollo’s eyes open as the sun rises. It takes some time for him to work out why he’s sleeping on the couch and his head is so fuzzy. Usually, waking up at 5:30am is no fuss. Over the years, he’s figured out that he automatically wakes at sunrise (probably a used-to-be-a-sun-god-thing) but he’s usually well-rested after. With less than three hours of sleep under his belt, his bones cracking, and his shoulders aching as he sits up slowly, Apollo knows he’ll be miserable for the rest of the day.

He blinks the blurriness of his vision away before flinching as Eos’ rays shine directly on his face. With a stretch that leaves his muscles burning, Apollo sits, leaning his forearms on his knees, staring out the window above him. Though still unfocused, he tries to guide his mind away from the events of only a few hours before, even if for a moment.

The peach and baby blue sky stretches out at the top of the windowpane, barely seen amongst the tops of the Manhattan skyscrapers overshadowing the smaller buildings. Faint, hazy clouds hover in the sky, and a group of starlings zip around outside gracefully as the rumbling of a plain grows louder and louder. Apollo wrinkles his nose; though he enjoys his chariot, mortal inventions are always noisy and they seem to have been getting worse over the centuries. He hopes they sort something out or it might do for some godly intervention. But if Pan hadn’t been able to do anything...

A new feeling of dread settles into his stomach and makes its home there. Apollo’s eyes go to the golden arrows sitting on the dining table where there’s his hasty writing written on a piece of paper. It’s barely legible, but Oliver has had enough practice reading his handwriting when he’s running on fumes. Hopefully he’ll know not to touch them and they’ll avoid having any plagues released in their apartment.

Apollo eyes move over the clutter of the apartment, and he lets out a controlled sigh of frustration. He’s petty enough to want to dump it all on Oliver’s bed to distract himself - and passive aggressively make a point about the state of the apartment) when he spots his running shoes. He makes an executive decision to go running instead. Apollo had enjoyed Oliver’s company after their brief tryst enough to keep him around, and it’d be a shame to ruin that relationship over a few hoodies. And a binder. Running shoes all over the place. Maybe he would have a talk with Oliver after he woke up.

For a brief second, a flicker of guilt arises. Maybe he should be rushing off to Camp first thing and trying to figure out how to figure out what’s going on. Help fix the problem. Maybe he doesn’t care enough. The choking feeling arises again, and Apollo shakes his head as if it’ll chase away his thoughts. No, there’s a reason he’s not in charge. There’ll be enough discussions back at Camp - he can avoid thinking about it for a while longer. No one would reprimand him for it.

Apollo pushes himself off the couch, ignoring his mind and groaning muscles. Nonetheless, he takes the opportunity to throw the hoodies that had been scattered on the floor at Oliver’s door as a hint. He grabs his phone to flick off a brief text to Lynna, checking up on Tim’s condition and promising to call soon, before placing his phone back on the table. He needed distractions today, but the phone would be pushing it.

Mobiles had become a necessary evil: another source of constant noise made by mortals, but it was increasingly hard to get by in their world without one. They reminded Apollo of the constant sensory overload of being a god, having hundreds of things going on at once resulting in a lack of focus. To his friends’ dismay, his phone was silent most of the time. 

Nonetheless, the demigods still venerated cabins 6 and 9 for creating a phone that only had a 50% chance of attracting monsters. There was something about celestial bronze wiring that Apollo didn’t quite understand, but apparently they mostly repelled monsters and that was good enough as long as you avoided the internet. At the very least, it made it easier to blend in with other mortals instead of making up excuses about being Amish as some demigods had tried.

Before stepping out, Apollo opens the door of his room to glance inside at the sleeping demigod. In the dark room, he can’t make out much else but the rise and fall of the demigod’s chest. Theoretically, Apollo knows he should check for a concussion again, check on the bleeding he’d hastily bandaged up last night before passing out. He closes the door silently. At least the kid’s breathing.

The run takes him to Fort George then onward to Inwood Hill. As he steps away from the concrete homes and into the trees, the tension in his body fades away as if he’d returned home. Apollo passes glacial potholes and giant slabs of schist that have been around as long as the primordials and Titans without looking at them. Some days, their old age is reassuring; there are still things around that have existed longer than the gods, and they will likely remain even after the Olympians have become powerless. Today is not one of those days.

He passes by basketball courts and young dryads chasing each other on the path, mostly invisible to the eyes of mortals. When some of the few mortals around give double takes and stare after green and pink-tinged creatures with leaves woven into their skin, confused looks shared amongst themselves, Apollo looks away. Even for the god of knowledge, ignorance is bliss.

A _hulder_ lurks in the edges of the path and Apollo gives it a wide berth, hoping others will do the same. His remaining arrows are occupied, and he’s not going to risk poisoning the forest over a single grumpy forest spirit. Instead, he follows the curve around the Salt Marsh then turns back to head through the forest to the top of the hill. It’s only when he hits the meadow that he stops and lets himself stare at the view of the Hudson River.

Yellow, pink, and blue wildflowers bloom over the otherwise well-maintained grass. The trees are full and the leaves ripple in the sunlight as a light breeze passes through them. By this point, the sun has almost fully risen, and the day has transformed into a crisp, bright day. There are few mortals around this early on a Saturday morning, only a couple walking their dogs talking lowly and a single committed runner, red in the face with exertion. A group of elves sit on a patch of grass, the sunlight shining on them in a way that makes their green veins apparent even from the distance. 

Apollo lets himself enjoy the view, the turquoise blue water glimmering as gentle waves crest and fall with the breeze. A wave of warmth washes over him, and for a brief moment, there is peace. There’s no consideration of the mortals’ reaction to the dryads on the path, the golden arrows barely containing the nosoi, Lynna’s fear last night… Apollo forces himself to focus on the chirping of the birds. It’s the feeling of being watched that truly distracts him.

Apollo looks around, trying to find the source and lets out a silent groan when he does. A very familiar figure stands, leaning against an oak tree, glaring at him. Even from a distance, he can see the Diet Coke can in the man’s hand.

There’s a small part of Apollo that tells him to leave. A slightly bigger part tells him to make a rude gesture and then leave. He sighs. Every step towards the other god is a nightmare waiting to happen.

“Shouldn’t you be at Camp?” Apollo questions, wrinkling his nose as the stench of alcohol hits him. Dionysus’ watery blue eyes are as bloodshot as they had been before his drinking ban, and he’s put on a more youthful appearance reminiscent of earlier times. His black curly hair lies flatter than usual, dampened by the humidity, and the messy curls are stuck to the top of his forehead but he seems positively cheerful by his usual standards. Better clothing too, Apollo notes. Seeing him at camp with his Hawaiian shirts and god-awful purple running shoes had just been depressing.

“Shouldn’t you be on Olympus?” Dionysus mocks. “Oh wait, I forgot, you’re here shirking your responsibilities and spending time partying while I’m the one stuck in that forsaken place -”

“Get to the point, or the next time you wake up your punishment will be over.” It had always been a bit hard to take Dionysus’ whining seriously. The god had not dealt with the transition from mortality to immortality well, and even Ariadne could only do so much to weather his attitude even after all this time. Perhaps Apollo could understand the wine god’s peevishness a bit better now but he wasn’t in the mood for dealing with Dionysus’ temper tantrums. After a few millennia, they became tiring.

Over the past years, they’d each made a silent decision to ignore the other’s presence at camp. Zeus would never let anyone skip out on their punishment early, and it was likely this was another way he had decided to torture them both.

“Please do your worst,” Dionysus complains. “Better than putting up with this nightmare of an existence.”

The flicker of irritation grows as Apollo considers. 

Apollo’s expression must be at least slightly intimidating, because he backtracks quickly. “But, on another note, I heard that you ran into some… interesting trouble last night.”

Apollo smirks - even without his immortality he can keep his younger brother on his toes. Nonetheless, he’s startled by the change in topic. The wine god does a good job of appearing bored, as if only asking out of familial duty, but familial duty never really existed on Olympus. Unless there was a bigger force out to destroy them.

He notes the stiffness in the way Dionysus is holding himself, and Apollo’s relieved that he’s not the only one that feels something was off about the night before. Or maybe there’s some bark digging into his skin and Apollo is overestimating him. That seems more accurate.

“Word travels that quick, huh?” Apollo raises an eyebrow. “Hephaestus TV got 24/7 coverage on me?”

Dionysus snorts as if it’s inconceivable they’d spend that much time on him, but looks steadily at Apollo. For a brief moment, Dionysus looks like the nervous demigod from millenia ago who had just been offered immortality, and Apollo can almost imagine that the wine god is still capable of emotion. 

Apollo lets out a sigh. “Yeah, a little. Didn’t make much sense. I don’t know why the werewolves would go back on his deal, and those… spirits shouldn’t have been there. Not all together. Not like that.”

Dionysus crosses his arms, and glances up at the sky through the foliage before fixing Apollo with a look of hazy contemplation. “Do you think it involves our family?”

“Do you?”

The two of them stare at each other again. It had taken Apollo a long time to realise how little he trusted his family - other than Artemis, of course. His half-siblings were good company for the most part, but there had always been enough quarrels between them all over favouritism, lovers, and their own pride that even with his worries, he can’t admit his concerns to his brother.

 _Well,_ he thinks, _This is as good a time to start as any._ “I haven’t seen Hermes as much,” Apollo starts, carefully, “And he’s usually here every week even if it’s just for a few minutes to check-in. Aphrodite’s been quiet too.”

Dionysus smirks. “That’s nothing short of miraculous, maybe we should all count our blessings,” he says, taking a swig of his Diet Coke as if it’s a shot of tequila.

“I thought you liked Aphrodite,” Apollo says, mildly surprised. “You talk to her more than say Ares or Artemis.”

“Anyone would prefer our resident gossip over that psychopath,” Dionysus scoffs, “And your twin talks too much of nature for her to be of interest.”

Apollo has to stop himself from showing too much expression. No matter what Dionysus claims, he has a soft spot for the satyrs and their cause. When unconstrained from Camp Half-Blood, he could be found out in the untouched wilderness as often as he would be found in a bar.

“Uhuh,” he replies, instead. “So what have you noticed?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? Out of Camp for the first time since the Giant war, and well, drinking this.” He raises the can to Apollo. Apollo takes a deep breath in then gags. “Oh god, that’s actually tequila. I thought you were just pretending it was to make yourself feel better.”

“This _is_ to make myself feel better,” Dionysus interrupts.

Apollo gives him a flat look, though his mind is running. Dionysus is trying to act normal, and he’d be doing so very well if Apollo hadn’t known his sister, a master of suppressing emotion and seeming normal. He takes a second to evaluate Dionysus’ demeanour. He’s calm but there’s a tenseness in his body, fingers wrapped unnaturally tightly on the can, as if he’s worried it’ll be taken away from him at any moment. Or maybe because of worry. Even though Dionysus looked younger than he’d ever portrayed himself in a while, he looked surprisingly old and tired. Apollo hopes that isn’t a sign of things to come.

“Let’s walk,” Apollo decides. He grabs the can from Dionysus’ hand and walks ahead, ignoring the outraged growl of protest.

“Give that back, you worthless little -” Dionysus snaps as he catches up to Apollo and makes a grab for the can. Apollo shifts it to the other hand with ease and holds it out of reach.

“You should not be drinking this early in the morning,” Apollo says, and takes a swig. “It’s bad for your health. Also, be nice.”

Dionysus lets out another squawk of protest. The thought of hearing more complaining forces Apollo to hand it back. He loops his arm through Dionysus’ to stop him escaping.

“So, wait, you’re telling me the fact you’ve managed to actually get your hands on alcohol is supposed to be a sign of the end of days?” Apollo scoffs. Regardless of what he’s saying, he can’t help a small frown crossing his face. As far as he’d been aware, for the past twenty years, Dionysus had not been allowed a sip of alcohol, no matter how hard he’d tried. There was only one person to have that sort of control over the situation, but Apollo couldn’t imagine why he’d change his mind.

It’s either that or Father has become more lenient - which would you say is more likely?” There’s a smile in his voice, but his tone is sardonic in a way that reminds Apollo of Hermes when he’s in one of his darker moods. Though the sun is warm and pleasant this early in the morning, Apollo cannot control the shiver that runs through him.

“Fine, whatever, let’s say the world is ending because our father has learned the concept of forgiveness.” They both pause and glance up at the sky, but the aimless wisp of a cloud drifting over them is suspiciously quiet. “What’s gotten him to that point?”

As they approach the forest once more. Dionysus stops and turns to face him fully. He hesitates in a way that Dionysus is not known for. “You know there have been issues with the Mist. Our siblings have been less active than usual too. The demigods are worried.” His eyes bore into Apollo, as if he’s given him all the answers, though it’s just left Apollo more confused than usual.

Nonetheless, Apollo considers what is being laid out in front of him as he focuses on a tree in front of him. A pretty dryad with large brown eyes and green hair pops out and waves shyly but Apollo forces himself to remain focused.

If all the Olympians had fallen silent and no one was breaking any rules of contact, there were serious factors at play. Whether it was a consequence of the Mist acting up or a symptom of it would be a determining factor though was still up for deliberation.

“If it was anyone but our father that had done something, we would know.” It’s easier to begin by eliminating the improbable than start theorising immediately. “They would be another example. They would have to be, regardless of who they were.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Apollo sees Dionysus nod slowly. His gaze hasn’t faltered from Apollo’s face. “You’ve already caused too much of an upheaval. Anything else would be considered weakness.”

“And no one but Hecate has control over the Mist?”

His brother is silent long enough that Apollo turns to look at him. The can of soda has disappeared from his hand and Dionysus has now wrapped his arms around himself in a self-soothing gesture. Apollo raises an eyebrow, looking at him steadily.

“I don’t know,” Dionysus admits, eventually. “Not as far as I know.”

“And you never wanted to learn more than you had to.” It isn’t meant to come out judgemental, but Apollo can see the anger flicker across Dionysus’ face instantaneously. A vine grows out over Dionysus’ feet, swaying angrily like it’s going to attack him, though Apollo thinks it unlikely. Silent or not, angry with Apollo or not, Zeus would not be happy with Dionysus. And if he’s already provoked him…

“You always did want to remain separate from us,” Apollo adds coolly, turning back to look in the direction of the dryad who has gone missing. All the better for it. He wishes he could have disappeared from this conversation too.

“Not that you know any better for it,” Dionysus snaps, the can appearing in hand again. 

Apollo gives a half-shrug. “The running theory is then this: father’s done something that’s caused the Mist to fracture. Angered Hecate, perhaps? Or cast her down too?”

He mulls it over for another second before adding, “She was one of the primary defectants in the second war. It’s unlikely she would attempt another coup but she’s also temperamental. She was angry that she had to rejoin our side.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Dionysus drawls, before downing the rest of the can. Apollo is tempted to ask for a refill. “Rejoin the gods or watch your children die at their hands.”

“And if we’d left her children running around we’d have another war on our hands. Magic users are too powerful.” Apollo’s eyebrows pinch together. Dionysus is usually more practical than this, less likely to have empathy than most gods. Anyway, Dionysus had lost a child in the war. Apollo had lost multiple, and it still stung, even if he hadn’t really known them. He should understand. “If you join the wrong side, you have to know there will be repercussions. Even mortals understand that.”

The pair are silent for a long while, Apollo trying to understand Dionysus’ apparent frustration and the wine god considering the can in hand. He waves a hand and then drains another can of goodness knows what alcohol. Maybe wine, from the smell of it.

“Regardless of the cause, you have to find out what’s happening.” Dionysus’ voice is chipped, and he shifts his footing as if eager to leave. “Find out why Father has graced us with his silence and mercy.”

“Why not you?” Apollo asks, indignantly.

“Because one of us is currently a god, and the other is currently a mortal - out of their own choice, I might add.” Dionysus’ eyes have grown even more blood shot and as he gestures with his hand, there’s the slightest shake. “Guess which one of us doesn’t have to care?”

Apollo’s eyes narrow. It took one sentence for all the sympathy he had for Dionysus to dissolve.

The other god acts oblivious. “Go to Olympus if you must - “

“No.” Cold fury runs through Apollo, and he’s on edge, ready for a fight. He doesn’t want to think about going home, not now and not for a while after his conversation with Dionysus. He’d thought days of conversations like these were behind him, but it’s just an unpleasant reminder that his family never really changed.

The wine god raises an eyebrow, disdain, disapproval, and a lot of ethanol seeping out of every pore.

“It’s been eight years since your punishment and yet you refuse to go back,” Dionysus says, loftily. “It wasn’t even that difficult of a task you were forced with. Is it a grudge that keeps you from going back?” Apollo has to force himself not to rise to the bait.

He shifts, mimicking his half-brother’s posture as he folds his arms. “Yeah, none of your business, wine dude. I’ll figure it all out myself. Don’t you have some more drinking to do? You must be behind - it’s 6:30 and you’ve only had two drinks.”

Dionysus looks vaguely amused. “What a world to live in,” he muses. “Apollo himself is going to figure out a plan to prevent the world from collapsing on itself. Let us all hope you’ve learnt well, brother.” And with that, his younger brother disappears, leaving the air behind him smelling like the backside of a bar.

“Taking lessons from Father?” Apollo mutters after him, even though he knows he won’t have been heard.

On the way back home, Apollo mentally curses out his brother, curses out his father, all his siblings, and the entire cosmos of existence.

He can’t bring himself to run, too drained after his meeting with his brother. That just leaves him all the more time to think, and he doesn’t like the direction his mind is taking him. The thoughts are chaotic in his head, and Apollo finds himself unable to focus on most of them. Instead, a jumble of ideas flutter in and out as he turns over the key facts slowly.

The Mist had been shaky for a while now. Six months? A year? He’d have to talk to some of the demigods to figure that out. It had been about as long since he’d talked to Artemis. About as long since the Hunters had heard from her too. The other gods had been quiet for about as long. They were never off Earth for that long, regardless of circumstances. Hermes had been around for a bit longer. His was a different role though. He’d disappeared soon too. Dionysus was still there. But he was banished.

There’s something about that line of reasoning that he’s missing, some connecting chain of events or some endpoint that he’s missing. He leaves it aside for now and turns to the events of the previous night. The Mist had been shaky. There were _nosoi_. Lynna had seen Lycaon. There was a new demigod of the Big Three. The agreement didn’t apply.

Apollo stops in his steps. Someone bumps into him and he barely notices. He swears, loud enough to attract attention. His mind is blank other than a constant chant of, No no no no no no no, running through his head as he breaks into a sprint back to the flat. He lets himself into the first of an identical lot of brick buildings, and runs up six flights of stairs, too impatient to wait for the elevator, the metal echoing so loud it’s likely waking up the rest of the residents.

He pushes open the black door of the apartment to a startled and incredibly familiar face standing opposite him. For a second, Apollo panics and shuts the door again. He takes a deep breath. Ignores the fact every nerve in his body seems to be firing off at once in a panicked frenzy. He closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. Forces the door open.

Apollo takes in the bedhead black hair and electric blue eyes of the figure still standing in front of him. His lip is curled in annoyance, so very reminiscent of Thalia Grace. It’s also the same black hair and expression as Artemis. He also would usually see those blue eyes when he looks like in a mirror in his usual godly form.

Apollo leans against the doorway with his arm folded, clearly blocking the door, and rearranges his features to look as casual as possible. “‘Sup dad, how’s it going?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Rick focused on abuse and abusive relationships in TOA, and I appreciate his focus on that, and the impacts it has on a person. However, for the sake of this story, I'm changing the relationship between Apollo & Zeus a bit, only because it fits with my plot.
> 
> I don't want to undermine important discussions about abuse, and I will repeat this in any relevant chapters where it may come up. You don't need to forgive someone that abuses you. You don't need to have a relationship with them. These are important things to come up in books, especially in books targeted at younger people. For the sake of this fic, we will be partly re-imagining the relationship.
> 
> Thoughts, opinions, predictions, and constructive criticism all welcome :)


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